Branded
by Mel88
Summary: Hermione knew she had to try harder, either to heal faster or hide her failing more effectively. She did not understand why the PsychoSocial Healing sessions hadn't worked for her as they had for Harry and Ron. She did not understand why she was still lost, still low, still struggling to breathe, and talk, and see, and live.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This piece was written for the 2014 Reverse Challenge fest on H&V. A huge "Thank you!" is owed to my beta, Renee, for wrestling with my pronouns (and winning!), straightening out my wonky capitalizations, and pushing me to be better. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. Warnings include graphic violence, strong profanity, and psychological trauma.

**Chapter 1**

**September 19, 1998**

Hermione Granger's brown eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused and unblinking. There was activity all around her, everyone moving, settling in, shifting and turning and talking, and though they were not moving quickly, to her, they were a blur, moving in double-time. The colors of their clothes and hair and skin melded into one another such that faces disappeared. No distinguishing characteristics, nothing to separate one person from the next. Just a blur. It was all just a blur.

A hand touched her wrist. Hermione nearly shot out of her skin with panic, but Ginny Weasley was used to that reaction by now, and her apology was in her eyes.

"Are you ready for this?" she asked.

Hermione nodded, though it was a lie. She never felt ready anymore. Ready for the trial? _No_. Ready to leave? _No._ Ready to go back to work, resume a normal life, begin pretending as if everything was okay even though wasn't? _No_.

The smack of the Chief Warlock's gavel made her flinch again, and the blurs of people settled down as he began to speak. A dark blue blur brought in the only focused object in the courtroom: Draco Malfoy.

He had been arrested shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts and had been held in one of the Ministry's basement cells during his trial. His grey robes were well worn, almost fraying around the edges, and his ashen skin accentuated the hard lines of his pointed face. Dark circles made his eyes look sunken and his hair, like his robes, was shaggy and unkempt.

He looked like shite.

The blur led him to the witness stand, where he sat for the final time to face judgment. Hermione looked away from him. She stopped listening, as well. She had been through enough trials over the past three months to know that the Chief Warlock was simply recapping the arguments made and the evidence presented.

Ginny touched her wrist again, once more causing Hermione to start.

"He's looking at you."

Ginny sounded surprised, as if Hermione hadn't noticed Draco's eyes upon her throughout the trial. Not the entire time, of course, but whenever his attention wasn't needed elsewhere, it was on Hermione. She didn't want to look at him. Didn't want _anything _to do with him, but the witness box was in a direct line with her seat, and there was nowhere else to look but forward, slightly over his left shoulder.

Hermione tugged on the hem of her right sleeve and steadied her voice before whispering, "Let him look."

The Chief Warlock's gavel sounded again and, judging by the sudden burst of outrage, Hermione knew that a stay in Azkaban, no matter how brief, was in Draco's future.

"He won't be seeing much of anything there."

Ginny breathed a cynical laugh and turned to Hermione. "No, he won't, will he? Well, happy birthday, anyway."

* * *

**October 22, 1998**

Hermione took a deep breath in an attempt to settle her rolling stomach. It was a bad idea. Though the Dementors had been removed from Azkaban, their presence still haunted the place, their evil sunk deep into the dark stone walls. The subtle, sweet stench of rot permeated the dank air, and Hermione was glad she had not worn clothes she cared about. They would have to be binned after this trip, and she would have to spend at least an hour beneath the stinging spray of a hot shower to cleave the scent from her skin.

"Are you ready for this?" Harry asked, looking between her and Ron.

Ron nodded, as did she, even though she did not mean it. Being in the prison was bad enough. Being in the prison to see _him_ was worse. She did not like to think of how close he would be to her, how only a few metal bars would separate them from each other.

"I don't know what to expect," Harry continued. He sounded apologetic, as if he had promised them a full report and then forgotten about it. Knowing Harry, he was just nervous, and the idea of it warmed her slightly. His insecurity, completely unwarranted after what he had accomplished, was ingrained in him, and kept him humble, approachable, and beloved. Kept him human.

Ron clapped him on the shoulder bracingly.

"Probably going to be the same old git we know and detest."

Ron's humor made Harry smile, but did little to calm her. Her friend's bravado was not a new development, but it suited him less and less. Not like he would listen to her if she mentioned it. Not like she ever would.

Harry placed his palm against the wall. The stone fizzled away from his touch, dissolving as if his hand were acid. In less than a minute, the way was clear.

Harry led. Ron followed. Hermione needed a moment to square her shoulders before she committed to stepping into the visitor's room.

Her stomach turned over.

There were no bars to protect her from him. Just the width of a rectangular table, easily spanned by an arm or a lunging body. Her chest grew tight. She clenched her fists and stepped forward, joining her friends at the table. They had left the middle seat open for her intentionally. They wanted to surround her with whatever comfort they could give, what minimal protection their bodies could provide. The façade was unnecessary, and Hermione might have been insulted had she not been touched by the gesture.

Harry opened the conversation, and Hermione closed down, only half listening. She stared ahead, slightly over Draco's shoulder, letting her eyes flick to him every once in a while if only to prove that he could not catch her off guard.

Draco had cleaned up as well as he could, considering his circumstances. His hair was wet and lay mostly flat, curling around the nape of his neck. The dark blond stubble on his neck, chin, and cheeks was relatively clean. Dark circles still ringed his eyes, and his skin was startlingly pale against his surroundings, but he looked no worse than when the Ministry held him. She supposed it was proof enough that the prison reforms were working.

"Hermione?"

Her eyes snapped to Draco's face. He looked at her expectantly, his eyebrows raised, his grey eyes curious. Then, the walls compressed and the room went black. His face disappeared and in its place, shapes formed. A severe jaw, dark eyes, a mess of hair, and gleaming, laughing lips.

Hermione shot to her feet, steadying herself upon Ron's shoulder as her vision – what _should_ have been her vision – popped back into place. Draco's curious look intensified, his brows no longer raised, but furrowed over his eyes.

Dark eyes. Dark eyes that were not his own.

She turned and left without a word, retracing her path until she could no longer see the dissolved wall. The prison guards eyed her beadily as she paced the drafty reception area. She suspected they would have told her to stop had she not been who she was. Several minutes later, Harry put a hand on her shoulder, dragging her out of her head. His eyes were unyielding, his tone stern.

"I know there's bad blood between you and Malfoy, but you shouldn't have left like that."

Rarely did she behave in a way that warranted a scolding; this was not one of those times. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming it.

"He doesn't deserve to be locked up in here," Harry continued. "He was coerced into joining the Death Eaters. He saved our lives at the Manor."

"Indirectly," Ron added, more for his own peace of mind than because he noticed the blood rushing from her cheeks at the mention of Draco's ancestral home.

"He's a scapegoat, Hermione. A way for the Ministry to atone for its mistakes."

Harry caught her hard, disbelieving look before she could disguise it as acceptance.

"Malfoy made mistakes, too," he admitted, "and he _will_ atone for them. But not like this. This…" He gestured at the dark walls around them. "This doesn't mean anything."

Hermione tongue felt heavy as she lied: "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to do it, either," Ron said, "but if I can make it through thirty minutes…"

Ron's smile made his expectations clear, and Harry mirrored his expression, confident that she had understood.

And she had. Hermione knew she had to try harder, either to heal faster or hide her failing more effectively. She did not understand why the PsychoSocial Healing sessions hadn't worked for her as they had for Harry and Ron. She did not understand why she was still lost, still low, still struggling to breathe, and talk, and see, and live.

Her right forearm burned – a phantom pain that felt too real. She clenched her jaw as she followed her friends out of the prison.

* * *

**December 24, 1998**

Christmas at the Weasleys'. The cozy kitchen with its walls lined with animated portraits, brass cookware, and dented utensils; warm smells of food whose main ingredient was butter; the comfortable swell of familiar voices gathered around the old trestle table. It was her sanctuary, the safe place where she could forget what she'd lived through, even if just for an evening.

At least, it should have been.

It was Draco's first Weasley Christmas, and if his constipated expression was anything to judge by, he wanted it to be his last. Harry had petitioned the Wizengamot for Draco's early release, and the Wizengamot had complied with one stipulation: he would be placed under Harry's guardianship, meaning the responsibility for Draco's rehabilitation fell squarely upon her friend's shoulders. Any misbehavior on Draco's part would get him thrown back into prison and would reflect poorly upon Harry.

It was an empty threat. Draco would do anything to stay out of Azkaban, and nothing could tarnish Harry's reputation, not that he would care if it were. Regardless, Harry took the obligation seriously. He assumed control of Draco's remaining assets and found him a cheap flat to let in a decent neighborhood. Several new pairs of low-end robes and a haircut did for his image; Draco stubbornly insisted on keeping the stubble, though he did consent to have it trimmed and shaped. Though Harry would not confirm it, rumor had it that a Ministry job was forthcoming. Once Draco was employed and self-sufficient for three months, the geographical restrictions cast upon him would be lifted, and he could visit his mother at the Manor more than the allotted once per month.

Harry justified this dinner as community involvement, and though Hermione knew she ought to be impressed and pleased with Harry's compassion, she was angry. She resented Harry for ruining her holiday, resented the Ministry for caving so easily to his request, and resented Draco for being the cause of it, no matter how much he might deserve a second chance.

Hermione tried not to let it show, but Draco sat just across from her, separated this time by a slowly disappearing ham and a tureen of homemade applesauce. She tried not to look at him, but that forced her gaze to Ginny. Ginny noticed her stare and persistent silence. It did not take her long to guess the reason for it, and her pointed looks grew in frequency and intensity as the meal progressed.

Molly served pudding. Everyone tucked in, slouching back in their chairs as cutlery hit the table. Eyelids drooped, conversation lulled, and, when Bill suggested they relocate, no one had the energy to argue. Hermione followed behind, one of the last from the table, and veered to the right, forgoing the sitting room, the tree, the fire, the company, and any joy the season held for her.

She locked herself in the ground-floor powder room, turned on the faucet, and finally – _finally_ – let go. Draco's face, so close to hers, and his eyes…

Bellatrix's eyes.

Her stomach churned, and she lurched to the toilet to heave up her dinner. Once her stomach finished its revolt, she wiped her mouth and sat back, scrunched between the wall and the toilet. Her throat burned as she tried to remember how to breathe and, desperate, she shoved up the sleeve of her jumper.

She felt the heat and the pain of the curse as clearly as the day it had been cast, carved into her skin, angry and red and vivid, and larger, she thought. Bloody. She couldn't remember the advice given to her by her Healer, a young man who didn't understand – _couldn't_ understand – what it was like to be forced down and maimed for pleasure.

She clutched her arm and opened her mouth in a silent scream.

It felt like hours before the shaking stopped, before her tears dried and her breathing normalized. She wiped the vomit from the rim of the toilet and depressed the lever. She pulled her sleeve back down and tried to smooth out the wrinkles. She stood and checked her reflection – pale skin, bloodshot eyes, pinprick hemorrhages accenting her cheeks. She opened the door.

Draco waited for her. He leaned against the wall opposite the door, his arms crossed before his chest. The light hit the angle of his jaw in a way that made her stomach cramp. She looked away from him and took an unconscious step back into the loo.

The silence between them lasted too long. She had to break it because she knew he wouldn't.

"Why aren't you with the others?"

He ignored her question completely, as was his tradition. "Are you okay?"

She braced herself against the doorframe. "I'm fine."

Her eyes flicked up to his face again. Before, he had looked mildly concerned. Now, he looked angry, maybe even hurt, as if her answer had been not only incorrect, but also deeply insulting. She measured the distance between his body and the wall and decided to risk it.

As she passed him, he reached out and grabbed her arm. Her _right_ arm. He was not violent, and put no more pressure on her skin than Harry or Ron would to stop her retreat, but she cried out softly in pain and fear.

Draco released her at once, dropping her arm as if it burned him, and she stepped away from him, clutching her arm to her chest. He stepped away from her, too. The distance between them made breathing easier.

"I'm sorry."

His voice was deep and sincere, and she knew he had apologized for more than just the unwanted contact. She also knew it didn't mean anything. Didn't _change_ anything.

She dropped her arm, dropped her eyes, and walked away from him without a word.

* * *

**January 3, 1999**

Harry got Draco a job in the Auror Office.

The position was one only Muggles and Muggle-borns had ever heard of: mail clerk. Harry admitted, after several coercive questions from her and accusations from Ron, to using his celebrity to create the position. It was a measure of the Ministry's hatred of the Malfoy name that Harry could do no better than a joke.

All mail delivered by owl post was dropped into a large retaining bin and magically sorted into rolling carts which visited each floor three times a day. Only owls who missed their intended target due to confusion ever left their letters lying about. This was a rare thing, unless, of course, one's last name was Weasley. Draco was at Ron's desk more than seemed reasonable, even for Errol's great age. Hermione occasionally theorized that the bird clung to his life simply to make hers difficult.

It was bad enough that Draco had witnessed her failing, even peripherally. To see him every week, to have that constant reminder of what had been done to her, made her tense. She dreaded coming to work, not knowing if she would see him or not, not knowing if she needed to be on guard, not allowing herself a minute to relax for fear he would notice and take advantage of it.

He lingered today, making a show of analyzing Ron's ragged quill collection, and her hot-tempered friend was unable to resist countering his jibes. Hermione tuned out their back-and-forth most days, and Harry helped her, ignorant though he was of it. Today, he needed her opinion on the specifications of a wand his team had recovered from a raid in Southern England.

"Nine-inch beech with unicorn tail hair core," Harry muttered, passing the drawing across the aisle to her. "Do you recognize it?"

She took it and turned toward her desk, spreading the parchment flat and producing a copy with a pass of her wand. She swung around just long enough to hand him the original, then held her copy to the light.

"There's some strange detail in the handle," she said. "Almost like it's… misshapen."

"And look, the tip's nicked."

"It's Amycus'."

Hermione spun around to stare at Draco. Harry did likewise. Ron snapped his nicest quill.

"Come again?"

Draco answered Harry. "The wand you found. It belongs to Amycus. Amycus Carrow."

"How many other Amycuses do we know?" Ron sniped.

"Amycus' wand is a ten-inch larch with unicorn hair and no distinctive markings," Hermione recited. "We have record of it from when he was at Hogwarts."

"The larch is his secondary wand. His main one now, I suppose, since you've collected the beech."

"There's no record of him having a secondary wand."

"Well, there wouldn't be," Draco said slowly, as if explaining it to a child. He was not quite condescending, but he was close, and Hermione's cheeks flushed. "It's not one of Ollivander's. He acquired it illegally, probably soon after he became a Death Eater."

"Does Alecto have another wand?"

Draco turned back to Harry and nodded. "Most Death Eaters do."

"And you can identify them."

It was more statement than question. Draco grinned like a Niffler that had discovered a platinum vein. Then the bargaining began.

Hermione turned back to her desk and ignored it, staring with unfocused eyes at wand schematic. It made her furious that Draco would leverage his knowledge. A well-intentioned citizen would supply the information without a thought, not needing or wanting anything in return. A normal person would be content with the satisfaction of capturing murderers and potentially saving lives.

Not Draco. He was the epitome of selfishness, always twisting situations so that he benefitted from the exchange. His self-interest was so ingrained that Hermione wondered if it was a product of nature rather than nurture, but the idea that he couldn't help his behavior did not sit well with her. It precluded the notion of free will, and she could not accept that.

She tugged at her right sleeve and wondered if she could leave without attracting attention when Ron said her name. She whipped her head around and looked between the three men. Of them, Ron looked most expectant, so she addressed him.

"Sorry, I missed that."

Draco answered. "Would you have a problem if I joined the team?"

All eyes turned to him, which meant no one saw the shadow of anger that darkened her eyes.

He _would_ call her out and make her into a spectacle. To tell the truth – to tell him yes – would lend itself to a discussion she did not want to have with her two best friends. He had trapped her just as he had trapped Harry and Ron.

Her only option was to force a grimace to look like a smile and say, "No. Not at all."

* * *

**January 7, 1999**

It was a problem. A large one she could not avoid.

Draco moved from the mailroom into their quadrant of desks the very afternoon she had agreed to the bargain. Harry and Ron sat next to each other, as was their habit, and she had learned to live with the fact that they shared a bond she could never match. She was barely an arm's length away from them, anyway. Just across the aisle, there when they needed her, as was _her_ habit, and she reconciled the isolation with the ability to use the empty desk beside her as a short-term storage area.

Now, she didn't even have that. Draco's need for a workspace forced her to relocate her piles of books and scrolls, and so she did, relinquishing his desk and chair. Ron found him a dented inkpot. Harry added a yellow Muggle highlighter to his collection of moderately priced quills. Draco supplied his own potted plant, which, Hermione discovered after browsing through a few Herbology texts, was carnivorous.

Draco kept to his side. He was quiet, mostly, and when he did speak, it was to Harry and Ron more often than it was to her. But the nearness of him, the biting, almost bitter smell of his aftershave, was enough to remind her, to trigger her panic and have her clutching her chair for what must have been hours, her fingers cramped so severely that she could barely hold a quill.

Hermione wanted to ignore him and lose herself in mindless, repetitive tasks, but it was impossible. She had been hired to research. She had to complete the puzzle, make the connections, see what no one else could, and prepare her team for all eventualities. She had to focus. She had to be sharp.

And she couldn't.

Not when her arm burned and screams lodged in her throat. Not when fear clawed her belly and threatened to rip her apart.

He didn't know what memories he brought forward. He couldn't know. Not the details, at least. He had seen a glimmer of it at Christmas, and she had felt him watching her ever since. Before that, even, but with renewed intensity now. He was careful around her. Measured words, measured movements, nothing quick or loud, and that made it worse.

She did not want to be fragile. She wanted to be the way she was: confident and whole, unmarked and untainted.

It was a foolish wish, and she was a fool for entertaining it.

She rose from her desk, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. She made sure her wand was in its holster (it always was) and headed toward the lift.

Draco followed her in.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember her PsychoSocial Healer, those breathing exercises she'd dismissed as soon they were explained, but each breath she took was full of him and, by irrational, unstoppable association, _her_.

"You'll get through it, you know."

She wrenched her eyes open and wished she hadn't. The lift's buttons swirled black, white, and gold. Black, a gaping maw. White, shining teeth. Gold, a capped tooth. The lift's screeching as it lowered itself into the building grew louder as it traveled, magnifying into an insane, gleeful shriek.

Hermione pressed her back against the lift's wall, and she was there again, in that wide, open, opulent space with a madwoman tearing her flesh. She writhed, she screamed, she cried, and, as if from a mile away, she heard Draco swear.

The lift slammed to a halt, the noise as loud and deafening as an explosion. Then Draco's hands were upon her. Her shoulders, her neck, her face, her shoulders, her chest. He seemed to vibrate as he touched her, but no – it was she, shaking so violently that her teeth clacked together. His breath warmed her forehead, his hands gripped her firmly beneath her arms, and his foot swept her legs out from under her.

Her scream came out as a high-pitched, plaintive mewl. It was happening again. He would pin her to the floor, mark her in a way he thought she deserved, and she would cry and scream, but keep silent, keep their secrets, because that's what they needed, and that's what she was. She was strong. She didn't want to be, but she was, so she would grit her teeth and endure.

She would fight.

Draco was strong, too. He manhandled her, forcing her knees up and her head down, and then he was gone, pressed against the other side of the lift. She felt his absence like a gust of cool wind. Her deep, gasping breath made her chest ache.

"Breathe, Granger. _Breathe_."

She didn't need the encouragement. With time, her heartbeat slowed. She let her legs drop and her arms fall to her sides. She lifted her head, but did not look at him. She stared instead at the black, white, and gold lift buttons. Just buttons. Nothing else.

"Is that what it's like?" Draco sounded shaky and breathless, as if he had just witnessed a death. "Seeing me every day? Is that what you feel?"

She clenched her jaw, but it did not keep her chin from quivering. Draco made a noise as broken as she felt. Several minutes passed before she had the courage to look at him.

He sat on the floor. His legs were crossed, his elbows rested on his knees, and his face was hidden by his hands. His entire body trembled, and his back heaved with each breath he forced himself to take.

Draco was miserable, and it was like looking into a mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**January 13, 1999**

Draco switched desks. He took his quills, inkpot, and plant, and downgraded to a cubicle half the size of the one next to her. It was located next to the loos, and he was disturbed all day by the random comings and goings, the sound of running water, and the occasional smells.

Harry and Ron had wondered about the change on Monday, but a few rude comments about Ron's relatively poor upbringing and Harry's insatiable hero complex started a fight that changed the track of the conversation and brought her friends around to thinking that the change was for the better. They were sure the initial seating situation never would have worked, and that Draco's bout of good behavior was a result of the moon phase and nothing more.

Now that he was gone, Hermione found that she could not keep her eyes off him.

Of course, he noticed.

A memo landed atop the text she was reading. She did not recognize the handwriting, but knew the sharp, elegant script could come from only one man.

_Are we ever going to discuss what happened in the lift?_

Hermione's fingers itched to close around the folded parchment, crumple it, bin it, and force it from her memory. Her fingertips brushed the paper, and the compulsion instantly felt wrong. There was no use hiding it from him. He had seen her – not at her worst, because she had been much, _much_ worse – but certainly not at her best. He knew more than Harry and Ron did about her situation, in fact, and, most puzzlingly, had tried to alleviate the stress he had caused her by moving.

Still…

She inked her reply and sent it flying.

_I'd rather not_.

She glanced back a minute later and saw him staring at the flattened memo, his brow drawn in frustration. She grabbed another sheet.

_I appreciate your concern, and your help. I_ – she paused, the ink from her quill blotting the parchment – _am fine now_.

She sent that one flying, too, and was shocked when a derisive "Ha!" punctuated the office's murmurs.

Her cheeks flushed, and she busied herself with her book even as she heard his approaching footsteps. Faster than she thought possible, he was next to her, as close as he had ever been. The smell of him was strong, but different. She focused on it. Less sharp. Less chemical. More spice. More mint.

"_Fine_?" His whisper was more like a hiss. "Lie to them all you want, but don't _ever_ lie to me. I saw what happened to you in that lift. You were so lost that you couldn't even _see_ me, and I was standing right in front of you."

Her forearm began to burn. She wrapped her left hand tightly around her scars and hunched her shoulders forward, shielding herself from him.

"I'm not lost," she said weakly. "You don't know what you saw."

"I do know," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "We're the same, Granger."

"We are _not_," she snapped, her voice barely scraping its way past her lips. The room began to sway, the lights to flicker. She swallowed hard.

_Focus_.

"You changed your aftershave."

Draco opened his mouth, prepared to give an angry rebuttal, but closed it with a snap as he realized what she had said.

"Yes," he said on an exhale. "My father's was a trigger for me for a long time. I thought…"

He trailed off, but Hermione caught the thread of his thought and nodded.

"Thank you."

Draco chanced a smile and backed away. Her grip on her forearm relaxed.

"I want to help you," he said.

"I don't need –"

"Let me rephrase that. I'm _going_ to help you, and you're going to let me, or else Potter and Weasley are going to find out what you've been hiding from them."

Hermione set her chin. "I'm not going back to that Healer."

Draco narrowed his eyes, but the question she expected never came.

"Are you free tonight?" he asked instead.

She glanced left and right before answering, to make sure they weren't overheard. Draco noticed, and a flicker of annoyance darkened his grey eyes.

"I am," she said, "but I don't –"

"I'll Floo over at seven."

He stalked away before she could say a word against it.

* * *

Hermione sat on her couch, hunched over so that her elbows were on her knees. Her hands cupped her forehead, and she shook, unable to stop her legs from bouncing in nervous anticipation. She was surrounded by light, having turned on every lamp in her small flat. That usually did to chase away the shadows where the past could manifest and find her.

But there was a shadow coming to her door tonight, the past manifested in pale flesh and hard bone, in silver eyes and platinum hair. She could do nothing to drive him away.

Three knocks sent her rocketing to her feet. She stared at the door for what felt like a second, but must have been more, as there was another round of knocking. She took a steadying breath. Soon, her shaking hand was steadied by the doorknob beneath it.

Draco stood in the hallway. She held his eyes for a moment, then stared at the doorframe, studying the grain of the wood.

"Seven o'clock," he reminded her. "Just like I said."

She swallowed thickly, not sure how to answer but suddenly certain that this was a bad idea. She did not need him here. More importantly, she did not _want_ him here. His family had caused her enough pain, and whatever he was here to accomplish would only bring more of it. She didn't need that. She needed consistency and familiarity. Safety.

Her voice was little better than a croak. "I don't want you."

Draco raised an eyebrow. He placed his palm upon the door, but did not push. "Do you want Weasley?"

His undisguised threat made her angry. Draco used people against one another, turning their weakness into his strength without regard for what effects it might have. He was manipulative, and she hated him even more because he was good at it. Only one answer would keep him from running to Harry and Ron.

"Granger."

His shifted tone caught her attention. Her eyes flicked to and away from his face, but there was no mistaking the pain in his expression.

"This is the first step," he continued gently. "_This_" – he pushed against the door, the pressure firm against her arms – "is the first step."

She had no choice. She let go of the door and backed away several steps as he filled its frame. He looked relieved, then politely curious as he surveyed her flat. She felt a sting of pride as she imagined his judgment, unfavorable in every aspect, from the state of her kitchen and the wear on her second-hand table, to the pattern of her sofa and the arrangement of her light fixtures.

He shut the door, shut them in together, and she had to take another step away.

"Shall we sit?"

He stepped forward; she stepped back. He stepped forward; she realized he had angled them toward the sofa.

"The kitchen." She could barely get the words out. "I'd prefer –"

"The living room. I'm your guest. Don't you want me to feel welcome?"

That drew her glare. "You are _not_ welcome," she snapped.

He grinned at her. "Then you won't mind my rudeness," he said lightly.

Draco continued forward, steering her where he wanted until the backs of her knees hit the cushion. He smiled when she stopped and gestured with a sweep of his arm.

"Have a seat."

She did, stiffly. He joined her, and Hermione shut her eyes and stifled a chill as his scent washed over her. Spice and mint. Spice and mint.

"Granger."

She opened her eyes to stare at her hands.

"It's time."

Her eyes flicked up, passing over his face to nestle into the familiar patch of space just over his left shoulder. "Time for what?" she asked.

"Time to look at me."

A quick glance to his face proved she could. He smiled, but it was not genuine.

"You don't think I've noticed? It's been months, Granger. We've seen each other almost every day, and you don't think I've noticed that you can't look at my face? That when you speak to me, you can't look me in the eyes?"

He shifted closer to her; their knees brushed.

"It's a form of displacement," he said. "I didn't inflict your trauma, but I'm associated with it. You can't avoid _her_ because she's dead, so you try to avoid me, but you can't."

"You won't let me," she said bitterly. "I was doing fine –"

A sour look twisted his expression. "Fuck you, Granger."

Her mouth fell open in shock. "_Excuse me_?"

"I told you not to lie to me."

"I'm not –"

He barreled right over her, his voice rising with impatience and frustration. "You're not _fine_. You haven't been _fine_ since my aunt held you down and –"

"What would you know about it?" she yelled, suddenly livid at his presumption, at how casually he reminded her of the night when her innocence was stolen, when she was raped of her belief that people, at their cores, were good. "You just stood there and watched!"

"Do you think that was easy for me?" he yelled back. "Witnessing what was being done to you? Knowing your pain?"

"You don't know!"

"Don't I?"

He yanked his sleeve back, and Hermione's breath hitched as he exposed his Dark Mark. The tattoo, permanently etched into his skin when Voldemort was defeated, was offensive and jarring against his pale skin.

And that was enough.

Her waning control slipped, and she fell immediately into black, blind panic, suffocating under the inability to draw breath. The lines of Draco's face were not his own, the pink of his lips an obscene red, the whites of his eyes rimming the darkness within.

He surged forward, his warm thigh pressing against hers and his hands cool against her cheeks. He held her tightly, forcing her head up and her eyes forward.

"Don't let it take you, Granger." She heard his voice as if from under water. "Don't let her win."

She tried to shake her head, but he held her steadfast.

"Look at me, Granger. Look at my eyes. My _eyes_."

Air slammed into her chest. Some of the darkness receded, and then all she could see were his eyes. And in his eyes, she found salvation.

Draco's eyes were not like _hers_, heavy lidded and dark, full of irrational hatred and the need to destroy. They were bright and silver, shining like stars in the dead of winter's night, anchoring her to him even as the current of terror tried to sweep her into its depths.

"Who hurt you?"

Hermione was dimly aware of his question, of how tightly her fists gripped the fabric of the sofa. Fabric – warm, soft, and yielding. Not the marble floor of that night, cold and unfeeling beneath her thrashing body.

"Say her _name_. Who hurt you?"

"Bel –"

A cry of pain cut off her answer as her forearm burned. Draco's eyes disappeared, and she nearly lost herself with them.

"Who hurt you!" It was not a question, but an order, and Draco's voice was loud and urgent. "Who hurt you, Hermione! Say her name!"

"Bellatrix!"

The name ripped from her throat, travelling on a sob and a curse. The darkness surrounding her began to recede once again.

"And who am I?"

Those silver eyes. That patrician nose. Those high cheekbones. So much distinguished him from her – from Bellatrix, Bellatrix Lestrange – that Hermione briefly wondered how she had ever connected the two.

"Draco," she said on a sigh heavy with exhaustion.

"Yes," he said. "I'm Draco."

His thumbs stroked along the apples of her cheeks, wiping away the tears she hadn't known had spilled. Her grip on the sofa cushions – which were not the cushions at all, in fact, but his forearms – loosened.

"You're not going to hurt me," she repeated. She closed her eyes and let the truth sink in. "You're not going to hurt me."

"Look at me."

She did without hesitation.

"Never," he vowed. "Never."

* * *

**January 17, 1999**

"Something's different."

Hermione glanced up at Harry. He had parked himself atop a small stack of paperwork, which had migrated from her desk back to its original home on Draco's. The desk that _used_ to be Draco's, however briefly.

"What do you mean?"

"With you. Something's… changed."

She kept her face impassive and turned back to her work. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

He paused for a moment. "Did you have a good weekend?"

She had spent most of it looking into her vanity mirror and crying, wondering how she had ever let herself get so low as to need Draco Malfoy's help.

"No better or worse than any other."

"Has there been a break in the Carrow case?"

"Not from my end. I haven't been able to trace the manufacturer of Amycus' beech wand, nor the –"

Ron burst into the office, Draco close on his heels. Both looked harried, but excited.

"There's been a break in the Carrow case."

Harry jumped off the desk, scattering her paperwork, and Hermione rose from her chair, twisting her fingers. Draco met her eyes and nodded in greeting.

"Another raid?" Harry asked.

Ron shook his head. "A sighting. We were on call last night. Patronus came in 'round three from the Plymouth unit."

"The _Plymouth_ unit?" Harry was incredulous.

"I didn't know we had a Plymouth unit, either," Ron replied wryly.

"What were the Carrows doing there?"

"How were they spotted?"

Ron answered Harry's question first. "Group of blokes. Young. Just finished a pub crawl for their mate's birthday. Two of 'em recognized the Carrows from when the _Prophet_ ran their photos."

Harry's surprise was not misplaced. "The _Prophet_ hasn't circulated their pictures in years."

"And it was dark," Ron added. "And they were drunk, but some faces you just don't forget. We had to check it out."

"What were they doing there?"

Hermione's voice was louder now, more insistent. Ron turned to Draco, who looked at Hermione with a furrowed brow.

"You might want to sit down," he advised.

The insinuation that she could not handle herself rankled. She stood straighter, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes. Her tone could frost glass on a summer day.

"I'll stand."

"The Lestrange estate."

Hermione wished she'd listened.

Whatever "progress" she and Draco had made four nights ago was clearly not enough to stop the blood from rushing from her cheeks or her legs from trembling at the mere mention of her torturer's name. She steadied herself on her desk, stopping Draco's concerned step forward with a hard look and a grim turn of her lips. She was determined not to need him as much as he thought she did.

Ron glanced at her with the same air of concern, and Hermione forced herself from her swoon long enough to give him a bracing smile, which lessened his puzzled expression only minimally. She tried harder; she did not need anyone else involved in her psychosis.

"The Lestrange estate was never searched," said Harry, pulling Ron's attention away from her. "It was too heavily warded. No one could enter the grounds."

"The Carrows will try," said Ron firmly.

"And they'll succeed," finished Draco. "The Lestrange estate is like any other pureblood manor – you can enter via blood or permission."

"They're sure as hell not getting _permission_." Ron's voice was savage. "Rodolphus has been imprisoned since the Battle of Hogwarts, and Bellatrix –"

The weight on Hermione's shoulders increased at the mention of her name, making her sag. She tried to make her collapse look intentional, like the natural progression of sitting down, but Ron's eyes were too sharp to have missed it.

"The Carrows are distantly related to the Blacks," Hermione offered, stumbling to prove that she could keep herself together. "_Very_ distantly."

"Fourth cousins on Druella Rosier's side," Draco clarified.

She lifted her eyes to his. "Is that blooded enough to grant them access?"

"The estate will recognize their claim, yes."

"But?"

Draco turned to Harry with a grim smile. "The magic protecting pureblood homes is old magic. Family magic. The Lestrange estate will give priority to those with a stronger claim – direct descendants of the Black line, siblings –"

"Nephews," Ron said with a pointed look at Draco.

He nodded. "As long as closer blooded relatives exist, the Carrows are going to have trouble with the estate. It will not be easy for them to find what they seek."

"What could they be looking for?" Harry asked.

Draco gave a soft, derisive laugh. "Merlin only knows. My father and Rodolphus set up a yearly exchange – one Dark Artefact for another. It kept their collections interesting as much as it kept the Ministry off their trail. But Rodolphus was stingy. Possessive. Father suspected he never shared the best of his collection. He also reckoned that our collection was just a fraction of the size of Lestrange's."

"Half?" Harry supplied.

"Barely."

Ron let out a low whistle. He had helped Arthur raid Malfoy Manor and had shared with them the wealth of Dark Artefacts they'd collected, from relatively innocuous jinxed keys to deadly mirrors with the ability to capture souls. Hermione shuddered anew at the depths to which humanity could sink.

"If the Carrows are looking for anything specific," said Draco, "we won't know what it is until they have it."

"By then, it's too late," Ron said. He looked at Harry. "We need to get to that collection first."

Dense silence settled. Everyone knew exactly how that was going to happen, but no one voiced it. Not yet.

Ron cleared his throat. "Right. We have to find Robards," he said with a gentle nudge to Draco's arm. "He needs to be in on this."

"I'll go into town and see if I can collect any information on where the Carrows might be staying," said Harry.

"Wear your cloak!" Hermione's voice was too loud. She drew surprised looks not only from the three men, but from neighboring desks. Her cheeks flushed. "It's chilly," she said by way of lame justification.

Harry, like Ron, knew what cloak she meant, and both gave her half-condescending, half-tender looks. Draco's brows were furrowed, aware that he was missing something but unaware of just what that might be. Hermione intended to keep it that way.

She nodded at them and turned back to the reports she'd been studying, watching the three men leave from the corner of her eye. Ron and Draco shared intense, decisive strides. Ron paused to clap Harry on the back as he veered toward the lifts, and Draco waited until the casual goodbye finished before continuing toward Robards' office.

However much Ron might gripe about Draco, and however much Draco might stoke her friend's temper, something about their partnership worked. They disappeared around a corner, and so her gaze shifted to Harry. She watched him until the lift's gold doors blocked him from her sight. Then, a wave of anxiety gripped her chest and squeezed.

She shut her eyes and curled her fingers around the arms of her chair. The people who meant the most to her had gone, full of purpose and resolve, and here she remained, left behind. Paralyzed by a name and a past she couldn't change, couldn't forget, and couldn't forgive.

It had to change.

_She_ had to change.

* * *

A knock brought her out of the book she wasn't reading and to her front door. She unsheathed her wand and held it at her side before unlocking the deadbolt and cracking the door open.

Platinum hair and silver eyes. She exhaled his name.

"Draco."

She stepped back and invited him in. His eyes narrowed when he saw her stow her wand.

"Expecting someone else?"

Hermione grimaced and kept the lesson they both should have learned from the imposter Alastor Moody to herself.

"Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing here?" he prompted.

She shut the door behind him, relocking it.

"I know what you're doing here," she said. "I wouldn't have let you in otherwise."

"I'm glad we're of a mind about this, Granger. The Carrows won't wait long to get into the Lestrange estate, which means we don't have long to –"

"Fix me."

"Heal you," he amended.

She wrapped her arms herself. "What's the next step?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I'm not a trigger for you anymore, which is a good start, but I'm afraid that being in her house…"

Hermione's chest tightened. Draco's hands were upon her cheeks at once.

"Look at me," he ordered. "Look at my eyes."

She did. Silver, concerned, shining. The encroaching blackness stalled. He smiled at her.

"Much better," he murmured. His hands slid from her cheeks to her neck, and he brushed his fingers through her curls. She suppressed the urge to close her eyes and lean into his touch.

"But it's not enough."

A slightly sadder smile. He dropped his hands.

"I have an idea."

"What is it?"

He shook his head. "That's not how this works."

"I'm not going to agree to something –"

"That you can't control?"

She clenched her jaw.

"Because that's this is about. When Bellatrix took you, when she gave you this…"

Draco reached for her arm, but she yanked it away before he could touch her. He grimaced at the rejection and looked away from her. After a moment, he unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve and rolled it up. He raised his left arm, bringing his Dark Mark between them.

"I thought I wanted this," he said with an air of nostalgia. "I thought this was the key to my family's future. It was an opportunity to prove my value as an heir, to prove I had the strength and commitment to keep our bloodline pure. I wanted to bring honor to my father, and to myself. I imagined the night of my induction so many times…"

He frowned and closed his eyes, and Hermione's throat constricted. She knew he was reliving that night. She recognized fear in the tightness around his eyes and pain in the hard line of his mouth. She felt the same way when she dreamed, when she witnessed her body from above, as if it were someone else's, writhing and bleeding on a stark marble floor. How many times had she woken herself with a scream? How often had her arm burned as if it were on fire?

How similar were they?

When he next spoke, his tone was brittle.

"Reality rarely measures up to fantasy, and this was no exception." He opened his eyes, and the intensity of his stare struck her still. "I know your pain, Hermione. I know your _fear_. I know your hatred, and your resentment, and your fragility, and your lost hope. I know why you can't go to a Healer for this, and I know why you can't unburden yourself to Potter and Weasley. I know what it's like to be branded. And, if you let me try, I think I know what you need to move through it."

It was as honest as he had ever been with her. He was absolutely sincere, baring a part of himself that few others had ever seen. The arguments against trusting him were convincing, but there was no logic behind the feeling. It was smoke without fire. Thunder without lightning. Her mind, usually so reliable, was damaged. She could no longer trust it.

She had to trust her heart.

Hermione let go of her arm.

Draco held out his hand. She took it, and he led her to the fireplace. She waited as he lit a fire and threw a generous measure of Floo Powder within, turning the flames to emerald. He stepped in first, then held his hand out to her again. This time, she hesitated.

"It's going to be a tight fit, but you can't get there on your own," he said by way of explanation.

A skeptical look was all the reply she could muster, but she stepped into the fire regardless, shuddering as he wrapped his arms around her.

"We'll be there soon," he said. His voice was soft and a little sad. He had misinterpreted her shudder, and she felt both relieved and disappointed by it.

"Malfoy Manor!" he shouted.

Hermione gasped as they exploded through the Floo Network. Their journey was brief and easier than anticipated, though she suspected Draco had cocooned her from the worst of the jostling. She stepped out of the hearth first, shedding ash on a well-worn Oriental carpet. A gust of wind whipped her as she stepped off the rug, and she glared at Draco, his hair freshly windswept.

"A warning would've been nice," she groused, trying to rearrange her wayward curls.

"The elves can't have us trailing ash through the halls," he said with a shrug. "I hardly notice it anymore."

He led her through his childhood home with quick, efficient strides. She was silent, though there was plenty to ask about, and he commented on nothing, though there was plenty to explain. After a few minutes, they arrived at a large pair of doors. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Draco took her hand.

"You know what lies beyond," he said softly.

Hermione nodded.

In the corner of her eye, a figure appeared, tall and pale in light blue robes.

Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione's stomach sank as Narcissa reached toward them, but Draco stepped between them, stopping her approach with a gesture and a small shake of his head. Narcissa dropped her arm and lowered her head in silent acquiescence. Hermione gave his hand a soft squeeze in gratitude.

"I don't know what's going to happen to you when I open these doors," he said, once again focused on her. "But I'm not going to let you get hurt. I'm not going to leave you. Granger?"

She met his eyes.

"You are not in this alone."

She looked away from him, dropped his hand, pushed the doors open, and stepped through.

Memories from that night swept over her, scattering his reassurances and any semblance of control she might have claimed. Her legs moved her inexorably forward until she stood in the center of the room, where past and present merged. Bellatrix to her right, brandishing her wand, leering at her as she lied, lied, lied. The Malfoy family standing nearby, close to one another. Narcissa's hand clutching Draco's shoulder. Lucius' hands clenched into fists. Harry and Ron gone, trapped, but together.

They were together, and she was alone. Alone, yet surrounded by the demons that had taken root and flourished in her damaged mind. Alone, but for the face that haunted her in sleep and in waking. Alone, and now aware of why that would always be true.

Her screams. Her screams were everywhere, and when she looked down, she saw herself spread out on the floor. The sleeve of her jumper was torn away, as was her skin, and she oozed blood – so much blood, too much blood, a river of it, flowing fast and warm and salty and sticky as it trailed down her fingers and stained the marble.

_Mudblood_.

Tears streamed like her blood as she looked at the ceiling. It was blurred, out of focus, and the same insane thought – they should make redundant the artist who had done such poor fresco work – turned her screams into sobs.

She curled into herself, cradled her scarred arm, and cried, reliving the pain until it no longer hurt her, the horror until it became familiar and unimportant. The power of the place faded away, and she followed it into the dark.

* * *

**January 18, 1999**

Hermione came awake all at once, instantly aware that she was not where she ought to be. The room was dark, but the bed beneath her was too plush and the blankets above her too soft to be her own. Hermione grabbed at her hip and sighed in relief as she felt her wand, warm and ready beneath her palm. She unsheathed it and cast a charm to tell the time. A few hours past midnight. Next, she cast _Lumos_. The furniture surrounding her was grand, the art hanging on the walls priceless.

She was still at the Manor, then. She sat up and put a hand to her forehead in an effort to smother her budding headache. She wasn't sure what had happened after she lost consciousness, and preferred not to think about how Draco had transported her up the stairs or into bed. At least she was still clothed, save for her shoes, which he had set by the door.

The modest intimacy made her uncomfortable, and she whipped off the blankets, desperate for her own space. She needed to figure out what had happened to her last night, what it meant and if life would be any different now that she had confronted her past.

She slipped her shoes on and kept her wand lit as she quietly closed the door and crept down the hallway toward where she thought the stairs might be. Thick carpet muted her footsteps, but not the hisses of Malfoy family portraits who didn't appreciate the late-night disturbance.

"Ms. Granger?"

Hermione jumped around, her wand raised. She lowered it immediately.

"Mrs. Malfoy," she said with a gasp. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean –"

"You had every right," Narcissa interrupted. "I startled you, and you have not had an easy evening."

Hermione dropped her gaze, ashamed. "I haven't," she admitted. "I was just looking for the stairs. I'd like to go home."

Narcissa did not argue or try to cajole Hermione into staying the night. She simply smiled in a way that reminded Hermione of her own mother.

"Of course. You'll use the private Floo. It's much closer."

"Thank you."

The portraits fell silent as the Malfoy matriarch passed. Hermione followed her down the hall from which she'd come. They turned left at the fork and traveled down a narrow hallway that terminated in a well-appointed study.

Candles flared to life upon their entry, as did the large fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked upon the dark expanse of the Malfoy estate, and Hermione could only imagine what it must have looked like at dawn, when the sun crept up from behind the horizon and painted the rolling fields in purples, pinks, and greens.

Narcissa lifted a small casket of Floo Powder from a side table and held the box before her. Hermione hesitated, then stilled as she noticed Narcissa's shining eyes.

"I appreciate what your friends have done for my son. It was never my wish for him to make my husband's mistakes, and I wonder, if he had known you – _truly_ known you – earlier… Maybe if he hadn't been so proud, maybe if Lucius and I hadn't failed him as miserably as we did…"

Hermione looked away as Narcissa dabbed at her eyes. She didn't know what to say, so remained silent.

"And I appreciate what you're doing for him as well, Ms. Granger."

Hermione looked back up, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Letting him help you," she clarified. "Letting him in. Time and experience have changed him, and he thinks he has moved through what was done to him, but he hasn't. He will never admit it. I don't even think he can see it, but I can. Then I saw him tonight. I saw him with you. How much he cares, how he held you, how he…"

Narcissa averted her gaze, and Hermione, against her better judgment, laid her hand upon Narcissa's arm.

"We're good for each other, then."

Narcissa nodded and smiled a watery smile. She opened the Floo Powder casket and held it out for Hermione.

"Safe travels, Ms. Granger."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**January 20, 1999**

Draco and Ron returned from lunch early, led by a grim-looking Harry. Hermione dropped her fork and stood, abandoning her salad and bracing herself for whatever news he had to share. But he said nothing, just swept by her desk, his eyes never straying from his path.

"Conference room," Ron said, still following closely.

"The Carrows?"

He nodded once and spoke over his shoulder. "Bring whatever you have."

Hermione turned to her files, but not before trying to catch Draco's eyes. He glanced at her, and their gazes locked for barely a second before he looked away. She tried not to take it personally, tried not to care, but he hadn't spoken to her since he had taken her to the Manor, and she didn't know why.

Still, now was not the time. She rushed to the conference room with a quill, a blank scroll, and several sheets of parchment regarding the finer nuances of pureblood magic.

Head Auror Gawain Robards sat at the head of the small table, and he motioned Hermione to close the door. He withdrew his wand after she sat and pointed it at the door handle and then made a circle above his head, locking and soundproofing the room.

"Your update had better be good, Potter," the large man grumbled, running his hand over his dark, brush-cut hair. "I had to cancel a lunch with Finneas Fletch for this. If I miss my chance at World Cup tickets, I'm docking their cost from your pay."

"The Carrows tried to access the Lestrange estate last night," Harry said. He laid his wand on the table, angling it up slightly so that the tip pointed at the wall space above Ron's head. He dimmed the lights with a wave of his hand and said, "_Show Me_." Low-quality video streamed from Harry's wand onto the wall. Two hunched figures in dark cloaks poked and prodded a large set of wrought-iron gates. After a few minutes, the gates opened. The figures disappeared within.

"They made it onto the grounds, but have yet to access the manor itself. They came back out shortly before sunrise and Disapparated."

"You don't know where?" Robards was unfairly incredulous.

"Doesn't matter," said Ron. "It's only a matter of time before they find a way through those doors, and then –"

"You don't know what they're after."

It was Hermione's turn to contribute. "Sir, the Lestranges' vault can house any number of Dark Artefacts, from time manipulators to magical 'dirty bombs' that could level an entire city. There's no way we can know what they want until we're inside."

"And you want to risk your lives to find out? The Carrows are not an enemy to be taken lightly, and the Lestrange estate will have its share of tricks, I assure you."

"We'll never have a better opportunity," Harry insisted. "The Carrows have no idea we've been watching them, and Malfoy can get us inside."

"I can get _two_ of us inside," Draco corrected.

The room fell silent. All eyes looked to him, but – for the first time in days – he had eyes only for Hermione.

"Potter and Weasley are blooded wizards, but their familial connection to the Lestranges is too distant. The Estate will bar their entrance. If the wards have been updated within the last twenty or so years – and I am sure they have been – Potter and Weasley may well be considered family enemies. An attempt to enter the manor itself could be fatal."

"That would've been bloody nice to know before going out there to do reconnaissance work!" Ron seethed. "What if Harry had followed after them? He could've been killed!"

"Only the manor, you cotton-eared oaf," Draco shot right back. "The grounds probably only would've wounded him."

"_Probably_?"

"Enough!" shouted Robards. "Get to the point, Malfoy."

"The only other person who can enter the Estate without coming to harm is Granger."

Hermione glared at him. She did not bother flipping through her notes to search for a detail she might have forgotten or a loophole that would lift the responsibility from her. This was a detail only a pureblood could know, and Draco had probably known for a while.

"How?" she asked.

"Your blood. The Estate will not recognize the legitimacy of a Muggle-born witch, even one past the age of majority. Muggles can't enter," he said, forestalling the question he knew she would ask, "because of the repelling charms. But you're not a Muggle. You're something in between. An aberration. To include you on the wards would validate your legitimacy and admit you pose a threat." Draco smiled tightly. "You can understand why my dear aunt would be… _hesitant_ to do such a thing."

"How the hell do you know?"

Draco shot another exasperated glare at Ron. "Because I tested it, Weasley." He turned turned back to Hermione. "I checked the Manor's ward record after you left Tuesday morning."

Hermione felt herself pale at his ambiguity. Harry and Ron jumped to the incorrect conclusion without waiting to hear more, just as Draco had known they would.

"Hermione, what is he talking about?"

"You and the _ferret_?"

"What were you doing there?"

"You can do so much better!"

Robards slammed his fist onto the table, knocking Harry's wand over and interrupting the looped footage. The lights returned. "Shut it, you two!"

Draco continued after he was sure of the room's silence. "Malfoy Manor's wards detected one magical presence entering Monday evening, and none leaving Tuesday morning, though of course, you weren't there when I woke up."

Ron groaned and put his head in his hands. Hermione would have killed Draco if she weren't certain it would result in her suspension.

"That's quite a loophole," Robards said.

"That's pureblood arrogance," Malfoy corrected.

"And if you're wrong?" Harry asked weakly. "What if the Lestranges' wards _do_ recognize Hermione as a witch?"

His frown was all the answer Harry needed. He stood quickly.

"No. I won't allow it."

"Harry…"

"No, Hermione," he said sternly. "We'll think of something else."

"There will be other opportunities," Ron agreed. "We'll ambush them coming out."

"When they already have whatever weapon they're searching for?" Hermione pointed out.

Ron's ears reddened in embarrassment and anger. "It's better than sending you in on the word of some rodent who'd sooner see you skinned!"

Robards roared in anger, his fist smashing into the table in an attempt to restore the room to order, but it was too late. Draco lunged from his chair and grabbed the collar of Ron's robes. He dragged him to his feet and pinned him against the wall, his hawthorn wand at Ron's throat.

"I'd rather see _you_ skinned, _Weasel_."

"Just try it, Malfoy!" Ron spat. "I'll see you in Azkaban faster than you can say Volde–"

Harry leapt across the table and dragged Draco away by his shoulders, and Robards inserted himself between the two men, obscuring Ron's body from Draco's sight.

"Control yourselves!" Robards bellowed. "I can't have two of best agents fighting like _children_!"

"Draco." Hermione's voice was quiet, but deadly serious, demanding the attention of everyone. "Are you sure?" Her question cut through the ruckus and demanded short, honest answers. Draco turned to her. His teeth were still bared in a snarl, and his chest heaved.

"There's a chance I'm wrong," he repeated. He shook off Harry's hands, and the two traded glares.

"How much of one?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

Hermione turned to Harry next. "Will there be a better opportunity to catch the Carrows?"

Harry bit the inside of his cheek before answering. "Maybe."

"When?"

He looked away from her, unable to answer.

"Ron."

Her friend's red face appeared from behind Robards.

"Do you honestly believe Draco would put me in danger if there were another way?"

More silence, another avoided look.

"That's what I thought." She looked to Robards next. "Sir?"

Robards looked at her appraisingly, then studied Draco.

"Come to me with a strategy by five p.m. If I like what I see, we'll take it from there."

* * *

**January 21, 1999**

The Lestrange estate sat in an isolated area just north of Plymouth on a tributary of the River Tavy. The morning was chill, and dense, cold fog misted from the river. The fog blanketed the Estate and its grounds, obscuring the great manor from view and making navigation of the terrain – alternately rocky and wooded – perilous.

"This fog better clear up," said Ron as he stumbled over a decomposing stump.

"It's a double-ended wand," Harry said. "Plenty of cover for us –"

"But we could be right next to the Carrows and never know it."

"Better stay quiet then," hissed Draco.

They ignored him. Had been ignoring him – and Hermione – since Robards dismissed them from yesterday's meeting.

"Plenty of high ground near the gates, though. We'll sweep as much as we can, then try to get above the fog."

"Interesting that they constructed the gates here. Seems to me they'd want a clear view of any visitors."

"Any visitor who came to the gates did _not_ have an invitation," Draco snarked.

"_Purebloods_." Ron said it as though it were an expletive.

"Do you forget your own lineage, _Weasley_?"

Ron spun, his wand raised, but Harry grabbed his arm, turned him around, and shoved him forward.

"Now is _not_ the time," he scolded. He looked over his shoulder just long enough to give Draco a quelling glance, then continued forward, hurrying to catch up with Ron.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.

"Draco…"

He rounded on her, his face a mask of frustration and anger. "How those two weren't _slaughtered_ during your seventh year 'camping trip' is a feat I will never understand."

"They're just tense. They don't like this."

"Oi! You two plan on joining us any time soon?"

Draco whirled back around, his teeth bared. "They're going to get us all killed," he seethed. He took off through the woods to tell them so, ignoring the fact that he was making as much noise as they.

* * *

The fog cleared out around noon, leaving the day clear, cold, and bright. Despite the morning's difficulties, Hermione, Ron, and Harry exchanged hugs and wishes of good luck. They never said goodbye on missions like these; none of them could risk believing that it might actually be true.

A light wind buffeted her curls as she followed Draco through the brush, down a different path than the one they had used to find Harry and Ron's hiding place. They walked in uncomfortable silence, Draco still preoccupied with Harry and Ron's conduct. It was not how she wanted to go into a dangerous situation.

"Do you remember what to do when we enter the manor?" Hermione asked.

"Locate the manor's center, dismantle the blood wards, Patronus Potter and Weasley, find and secure the vault, capture the Carrows, and whose plan was this, anyway, because I have a very distinct memory of it being _mine_."

She was prepared for snark and sniping that such an obvious question deserved, and received it in spades. It was a step towards normal.

"You suspected the Estate wouldn't recognize me from the start," she said, trying a different strategy. "Was confirming it the only reason you brought me to the Manor? Is that why you've been avoiding me for the past three days?"

He whirled around to face her, closing the distance between them with just two strides.

"You know it wasn't," he snapped. His grey eyes were alight with clear, focused anger. "I've been avoiding you for three days because you left the Manor in the middle of the night. You needed your space, and that's fine, but you could have at least left a note."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "Your mother didn't tell you?"

"Eventually," he muttered darkly. "I didn't see her until midday. By then, I'd already searched the Manor. You weren't stuck in the vault or lost in the library, so..."

He trailed off, and Hermione fidgeted in the silence.

"And it's not like I feel good about this, either, you know," he continued after a moment.

"Why?"

"We've had less than a week," he said, tense but no longer furious. "Less than a week to heal you, and now I'm leading you into the den of the dragon. I have no idea what this is going to do to you, how far this will set you back, how much of what we've accomplished will be wrecked, but, damn it, I agree with Potter. We don't know when we're going to get another chance at the Carrows, and short of me going in alone –"

"Which Robards would never have allowed."

"I didn't see another option. Is it really so surprising that I feel _guilty_ about dragging you into this?"

"You didn't _drag _me," she corrected, laying a hand on his arm. "I _chose_ to do this, and you helped me find what I needed to do so."

Draco looked away from her, into the woods, his eyes far away.

"I promised I wouldn't hurt you," he said finally.

"Then don't." She moved her hand from his arm to his cheek, and he closed his eyes at her touch. "Help me. Help me finish this."

"And after?"

She wanted to reassure him that their mission would progress as planned and that their relationship – whatever it was – would continue. But she couldn't. Their future was too uncertain for promises, spoken or silent. The best she could do was a small, sad smile.

"We'll see."

He exhaled with a shudder and rested his forehead against hers. "We'll see," he repeated.

She gave him a moment, then asked, "Are you ready?"

He stood and stepped away from her. "Are you?"

* * *

Draco ran his fingers along the edge of a large mirror, the wood of its frame peeking through beneath the sloughing gilt.

"This is it?" Hermione asked. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," he answered. He found the catch at the bottom corner of the mirror and swung it away from the wall, revealing a seamless portion of dark brown wall.

The sight was all too familiar, and Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around herself, keeping her wand clutched in her right hand.

Their journey through the manor had not been an easy one. The house had appeared all at once, so immediate that she and Draco were upon its front steps before she realized that the wall before her was not an old tree, as she had thought, but the entrance. The entire manor was like that, fashioned of stained, brown stone so that it was disguised within the forest as a strand of decaying trees. Two spires disappeared far into the green of the canopy, and Hermione could easily imagine balistraria overhead, hiding inhabitants who were ready to serve death to the uninvited.

Nonsense, of course. The Lestrange estate had been vacant for years, and the Carrows hadn't been able to access it. There was no logical reason for her to be afraid; it was just an empty house.

But fear wasn't logical, and there _was_ good reason for it. Draco pressed his fingers against where the handle should have been. The door opened into complete darkness with a moan loud enough to wake giants, or whatever else might have been lurking within. The dread came on as soon as she crossed the threshold and sank in when the door slammed behind them, the seams melting into the walls, creating one smooth panel, sealing them inside.

It had been hard to keep calm after that, even after Draco had lit his wand and helped her find her breath. With each step, she felt her tenuous grip on control weaken. The darkness swallowed the light from their wands, illuminating no more than two feet before them. Impossible shadows chased after them, tall and inhumanly thin, lingering just out of sight. The walls were bare – no portraits, no decorations – and yet Hermione heard faint cackling and a hissing susurration. Cold air brushed across the back of her neck, bringing with it a scent that made her fight the impulse to vomit.

The Lestrange estate was as haunted as a house could be, so long filled with the evil of its occupants that it had taken on the curse itself, a curse it had been holding onto for years with no outlet.

Now, it had one, and Hermione did not doubt that they would learn the true extent of it before their mission was complete.

After a few minutes of inspection, Draco pressed his wand to the approximate middle of the wall. A seam appeared, and the barrier parted with a soft hiss, exhausting dust and the scent of dead, musty air. They waited for the particulates to settle, then stepped through into the heart of the manor.

This room, unlike the rest of the manor, was resplendently decorated and immaculately kept. Plush, ornate rugs carpeted the gleaming wood floor, and priceless artwork lined the walls. A cabinet full of family heirlooms and artifacts better suited to a museum than to a home lined one entire wall. A lounge area boasted several antique settees, centuries old though they looked brand new, a large, low table, and an end table, upon which sat a decanter of amber liquid and two crystal tumblers. Flames winked into existence upon unused taper candles, and the stocked fireplace crackled with bright orange fire.

At the far end of the room, sitting before a row of floor-to-ceiling windows, was an enormous ebony desk with an expansive leather blotter and clawed feet. As beautiful as it was – as much as it should have dominated the room and kept her eye – she could not look at it for more than a few seconds. Once she looked away, she had trouble remembering it existed until she saw it again.

She and Draco exchanged a look. There was only one reason to cast a charm like that.

Draco knelt before the desk. Four drawers lined the left side, three lined the right, and none contained anything more interesting than decades-old Lestrange financial records and the first draft of a pureblood manifesto, written in increasingly indecipherable English. He frowned and sat back on his heels.

"Could the ledger be kept inside the vault?" she offered.

His frowned deepened. "I have to find the catch."

He ran his fingers overtop the desk, along its sides and bottom, and prodded the clawed feet with his shoe. A chill breeze riffled across the back of her neck. Hermione took a step closer to Draco and looked around the room. The light was fading. The fire, roaring at first, had quieted into glowing embers, and the tapers were burned down to their stubs.

"Draco…"

He pulled himself from the desk and followed her gaze around the room.

"We don't have long," he said.

He pulled himself up, studied the desk, and ran his hand through his hair. His brow furrowed as he spotted the chair. She moved out of the way as he grabbed it and returned it to its normal location before the desk. He sank down into it and rested his hands upon the blotter.

"Be ready to move if I tell you to."

She took a step back as Draco's fingers continued their probing. Suddenly, a hiss of pain cut the silence.

"Draco! What happened?"

"Bloody hell. I'm fine." He held up a bloodied finger. "Just a scratch. It's –"

The fire died, the candles winked away, and the desk drawers rattled as the floor began to shake. Draco was by her side in an instant, dragging her away from the desk and into the near corner.

Hermione watched as the Oriental carpet beneath the desk dropped into the floor, forming a worn set of stone stairs. The rumbling stopped, and Draco let go of her arm. They approached it slowly, cautiously, with their wands raised.

The vault entrance gaped like the maw of some great beast. Draco sent a ball of light into the abyss, but instead of lighting the way, it was swallowed, disappearing without illuminating more than a few steps.

"Shite." Draco ran his fingers through his hair again and looked at Hermione. "I want you to stay up here."

Her stomach dropped. "No. I don't –"

"Hermione, I don't know what's going to happen down there."

"But –"

"_Please_."

She looked between him and the entrance. "I don't want to be left alone," she whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

"I don't want to leave you." He put his hand to her cheek and stroked her hair. "But I can't risk you getting hurt. I won't be long. Wait for me, and be ready to send your Patronus."

She couldn't say yes, but had no right to tell him no. He understood her silence for what it was and said, "Thank you."

She readjusted her grip on her wand as his foot landed on the first of innumerable steps. He waited, tense, for whatever defenses protected the vault, but none came. He took another step, another, and was halfway down the staircase when a waft of cold air made her shudder, bringing her back to her senses.

What was she doing without him? This was paralysis, the fear she had been fighting, taking control. She did not want to be alone, lingering with the impossible shadows dancing upon the walls and the vague smell of Bellatrix's body lingering in the candle smoke. She did not want to stand idly by when Draco could be caught in a trap, fighting for his life, alone and afraid. She did not want to admit hours later, when his body was finally found, that she had been too frightened to join him.

As soon as her foot hit the step, she knew she had made a mistake.

A deep, bellowing roar, like the sound of a speeding train, surged from the vault. Draco spun around, horror stretching his eyes wide. He reached toward her, but it was too late. A wave of magic blasted past him, whipping his platinum hair into his face and flinging her off her feet. She tumbled through the air, and then her world became pain as she slammed into the window behind the desk. A shouted spell slowed her body's descent to the floor, but did not stop it. She landed with a thud and a crack as a bone in her right forearm gave way.

Hermione rolled onto her back, her chest pounding as she tried to breathe and scream. Tears blurred her vision, and she shut her eyes as the shadows tore themselves from the wall and coalesced into a nightmare. It was her imagination, a hallucination, her mind delirious from pain and the lack of oxygen.

"How kind of you, nephew, to have brought me a plaything."

The words meant nothing; the voice meant _everything_. It sucked the air anew from Hermione's lungs and filled her head with images of blood. She wrenched her eyes wide and opened her mouth in a silent, terrified scream.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Whatever beauty her severe face had once held was distorted by madness. Her hair was a tangled mass, her eyes heavy lidded, her cheeks caked with rouge. Her robes – long, trailing, hissing – were torn, nearly indecent. Her shining teeth glinted in the darkness and her red lips were open in a smiling snarl. Black blood dribbled down her chin.

She cackled as Hermione tried to scramble away.

"Look how it tries to run. Look how it thinks it can escape."

Bellatrix lifted her hands. No longer were they empty. In her left was a small, silver dagger; in her right was her twisted wand.

"They've been put to use on you before," she said, and Hermione cried out as Bellatrix's glowing eyes alighted on her scarred and broken arm. Fear flooded her veins, froze her, made her forget everything she thought she was. This was the end. Bellatrix would finish what she started, vivisect her and stain the world with her flaws, her arrogance, her fragility.

"Fight it! Hermione, _fight it_!"

The darkness crept toward her, and this time, Hermione could cling to nothing. They did not need her to lie, or protect, or fight. She was well past all of it, incompetent at the first, ineffective at the second, and too feeble for the third. And it was almost a relief, that knowledge. As much as she feared the pain and whatever came after, she could almost close her eyes and let it go, let _herself_ go, for that was the way to heal, wasn't it? That was what she had needed to learn, and at last – _at last_ – she had.

"NO!" Draco bellowed.

A blast of light and heat seared the air around her, and an explosion shook the foundations of the house, shattering windows and causing plaster to rain upon her from the ceiling. She cringed away from it as much as her damaged body allowed, then opened her eyes to see Draco, wand extended, soaring away from her, across the room and into the table with the decanter and tumblers. The crystal shattered beneath his body. A faint mist of blood arced from where he landed.

Seeing his blood, the evidence of violence she could have prevented, made her realize the price of her selfishness. That was not who she wanted to be. That wasn't who she _was_.

She flipped herself onto her stomach and crawled toward him on her hands and knees, over glass and splintered wood. She did not care how deeply she was cut or how thoroughly her clothes were shredded.

She cared about _him_.

Black robes appeared before her. She craned her neck and saw Bellatrix leering down at her. She still clutched her wand and her dagger.

"Look how it thinks it can help," she hissed. "Look how it thinks he will survive."

"He will," Hermione said, moaning as her lungs pressed painfully against her ribs. "He _will_."

Bellatrix leaned down close, and Hermione winced and fought to keep control.

"You will not," Bellatrix whispered.

Hermione felt a sob gather in her chest. It was too much the same, too much like what had been done to her, when she had cried and bled and lost a part of her life to the madwoman's wand.

But it was not the same.

"You're dead."

She did not mean to say it aloud, but she did, so quietly and so unsteadily it was barely comprehensible. But Bellatrix had heard, and her dark eyes widened in surprise.

"You're dead," Hermione repeated, her voice growing stronger. "You're dead, and you can't hurt me anymore."

"Filthy little Mudblood bitch."

Hermione could not help but laugh. Those words, so often repeated, meant nothing to her. They could not hurt her, barely even registered enough to sting, and so she laughed until tears of pain rolled down her cheeks.

"You're nothing!" she said with a victorious shout. "Nothing!"

One last bellow, an ear-piercing screech, and Bellatrix was gone.

It was as if someone had wound back a Time Turner. Plaster dust and glass rose from the floor and began to rebuild the destroyed room. Hermione groaned as a piece of glass beneath her thigh pressed upwards, gouging into her leg until she rolled herself from atop it. She lay for a moment, panting and bleeding, then rolled herself back over and resumed her crawl.

Draco lay on the floor unmoving. His left arm had taken the brunt of the impact, and his sleeve was shredded all the way to his collar, exposing his Dark Mark and a six-inch long gash that ran from his elbow to his shoulder. Blood had pooled beneath it and seeped out upon the carpet.

She grasped for her wand, yelling in pain and frustration when her right hand refused to function. She used her left instead, drawing her wand across her body and laying it across Draco's wound. She said the incantation softly, almost singing it, as was required, and hardly dared to breathe as the blood stopped its flow and the wound began to knit.

Draco gasped into consciousness halfway through her third incantation and sat up quickly, interrupting the spell before she could finish. His hands landed on her face, her shoulders, her arms, and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out beneath his touch.

He noticed, though. From the very beginning, he had seen her. Caught the glimpses of her pain, witnessed her breakdown, and remained by her side as he helped her to rebuild. He saw truths in her that no one else had. He saw who she was, who she had become, and who she could still be.

They exchanged a look. Hermione knew in that instant that she would never trust anyone as completely as she trusted him.

Draco was gentle with her, slicing away what was left of her sleeve with the tip of his wand, and using his fingers to locate the break.

"I'm going to splint it. On the count of three," he said. "One, two –"

Hermione's scream echoed through the room. Once she could breathe without sobbing, she opened her eyes. Draco was staring at her scars, the brand she had let define her for far too long.

"We're the same," he said. His eyes were glassy as they met hers. "We're exactly the same."

And he was right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Epilogue**

**February 4, 1999**

Hermione Granger stared straight ahead, her eyes focused and unblinking. The courtroom was still and silent in a rare moment of anticipation.

The Carrows' verdict was about to be read.

The details of it hardly mattered. Their advocate – an older woman named Lisandrea Tuffs – was appointed by the Wizengamot, as was the law when one was neither hired by the client nor volunteered to take the case _pro bono_. Tuffs put up a good fight, but it was all for show. The Carrows' crimes were indefensible, and when she turned away from the Wizengamot and let her eyes pass over the attendees, Hermione could see the truth. She was doing her job just well enough to negate any appeals the Carrows might make for a mistrial.

The Chief Warlock began to speak, and Draco laced his fingers through her own.

He had hardly left her side for two weeks. After Hermione had banished her demons, Draco ventured into the vault and augmented the Estate's wards. Harry and Ron arrived mere minutes later and began setting their trap for the Carrows. Hermione did not stay long enough to see it work and, after hearing Ron's description of the events, was glad to have missed it. She had had her share of excitement for the day.

After having their wounds tended at St. Mungo's, she and Draco were escorted to the Ministry and debriefed by Robards. The sun had set long before they were allowed to leave. Draco escorted her home and, as he stood outside her door, bidding her goodnight, she knew she didn't want him to leave.

But she had hesitated for too long. He left, and she felt his absence like a chill she could not shake. Early the next morning, she invited him for breakfast. He accepted.

They soon fell into a routine. Draco moved back to the empty desk beside her at work, and went home with her at the end of each day for dinner, wine, and whatever might follow. They toured Malfoy Manor's frost-covered gardens, met Narcissa for dinner, joined Harry and Ginny for lunch, and set up a double-date with Ron and Pansy.

For the first time in years, Hermione felt like an active participant in her own life, ready to resume an existence she had nearly dismissed as broken beyond repair. She had a future again, and she was excited for what it held.

She returned Draco's tender smile, blushing and looking away when his gaze became too meaningful to bear.

Her eyes settled on the obscenity etched into her skin and traced over its form. The letters were jagged and uneven, but more than clear enough to read. She would never be entirely comfortable with its existence, but it was no longer something she needed to hide. Her scars did not define her; they helped _create_ her, and she was proud of who she was. She was more than the slur across her skin.

Hermione raised her eyes and was not surprised to find Draco still staring at her. She squeezed his hand.

They were _both_ more than their scars.

**The End**


End file.
